Oh-You Tex

by Raine, William MacLeod

  The outlaw knew well enough that he could not afford to quarrel with the owner of the A T O. There was nothing to gain by it and everything to lose, for even if the cattleman should be killed in a fair fight, the Rangers would eventually either shoot the Dinsmores or run them out of the country. But Pete was beyond reason just now. He was like a man with a toothache who grinds on his sore molar in the intensity of his pain.

  "I've come to tell you somethin', Dinsmore," said Wadley harshly.

  "Come to apologize for throwin' me down, I reckon. You needn't. I'm through with you."

  "I'm not through with you. What I want to say is that you're a dog. No, you're worse than any hound I ever knew; you're a yellow wolf."

  "What's that?" cried the bad-man, astounded. His uninjured hand crept to a revolver-butt.

  "I believe in my soul that you murdered my boy."

  "You're crazy, man—locoed sure enough. The Mexican—"

  "Is a witness against you. When you heard that he had followed Ford that night, you got to worryin'. You didn't know how much he had seen. So you decided to play safe an' lynch him, you hellhound."

  "Where did you dream that stuff, Wadley?" demanded Dinsmore, eyes narrowed wrathfully.

  "I didn't dream it, any more than I dreamed that you followed Ford from the cap-rock where you hole up, an' shot him from behind at Battle Butte."

  "That's war talk, Wadley. I've just got one word to say to it. You're a liar. Come a-shootin', soon as you're ready."

  "That's now."

  The cattleman reached for his forty-five, but before he could draw, a shot rang out from the corral. Wadley staggered forward a step or two and collapsed.

  Pete did not relax his wariness. He knew that one of the gang had shot Wadley, but he did not yet know how badly the man was hurt. From his place behind the horse he took a couple of left-handed shots across the saddle at the helpless man. The cattleman raised himself on an elbow, but fell back with a grunt.

  The position of Dinsmore was an awkward one to fire from. Without lifting his gaze from the victim, he edged slowly round the bronco.

  There was a shout of terror, a sudden rush of hurried feet. The stableboy had flung himself down on Wadley in such a way as to protect the prostrate body with his own.

  "Git away from there!" ordered the outlaw, his face distorted with the lust for blood that comes to the man-killer.

  "No. You've done enough harm. Let him alone!" cried the boy wildly.

  The young fellow was gaunt and ragged. A thin beard straggled over the boyish face. The lips were bloodless, and the eyes filled with fear. But he made no move to scramble for safety. It was plain that in spite of his paralyzing horror he meant to stick where he was.

  Dinsmore's lip curled cruelly. He hesitated. This boy was the only witness against him. Why not make a clean job of it and wipe him out too? He fired—and missed; Pete was not an expert left-hand shot.

  "Look out, Pete. Men comin' down the road," called the other Dinsmore from the gate of the corral.

  Pete looked and saw two riders approaching. It was too late now to make sure of Wadley or to silence the wrangler. He shoved his revolver back into its place and swung to the saddle.

  "Was it you shot Wadley?" he asked his brother.

  "Yep, an none too soon. He was reachin' for his six-shooter."

  "The fool would have it. Come, let's burn the wind out of here before a crowd gathers."

  Gurley and a fourth man joined them. The four galloped down the road and disappeared in a cloud of white dust.

  A moment later Jumbo Wilkins descended heavily from his horse. Quint Sullivan, another rider for the A T O, was with him.

  The big line-rider knelt beside his employer and examined the wound. "Hit once—in the side," he pronounced.

  "Will—will he live?" asked the white-faced stableboy.

  "Don't know. But he's a tough nut, Clint is. He's liable to be cussin' out the boys again in a month or two."

  Wadley opened his eyes. "You're damn' whistlin', Jumbo. Get me to my sister's."

  Quint, a black-haired youth of twenty, gave a repressed whoop. "One li'l' bit of a lead pill can't faze the boss. They took four or five cracks at him an' didn't hit but once. That's plumb lucky."

  "It would 'a' been luckier if they hadn't hit him at all, Quint," answered Jumbo dryly. "You fork yore hawss, son, an' go git Doc Bridgman. An' you—whatever they call you, Mr. Hawss—rustler—harness a team to that buckboard."

  Jumbo, with the expertness of an old-timer who had faced emergencies of this kind before, bound up the wound temporarily. The stable-rustler hitched a team, covered the bottom of the buckboard with hay, and helped Wilkins lift the wounded man to it.

  Clint grinned faintly at the white-faced boy beside him. A flicker of recognition lighted his eyes. "You look like you'd seen a ghost, Ridley. Close call for both of us, eh? Lucky that Ranger plugged Dinsmore in the shootin' arm. Pete's no two-gun man. Can't shoot for sour apples with his left hand. Kicked up dust all around us, an' didn't score once."

  "Quit yore talkin', Clint," ordered Jumbo.

  "All right, Doc." The cattleman turned to Ridley. "Run ahead, boy, an' prepare' Mona so's she won't be scared plumb to death. Tell her it's only a triflin' flesh-wound. Keep her busy fixin' up a bed for me—an' bandages. Don't let her worry. See?"

  Ridley had come to town only two days before. Ever since the robbery he had kept a lone camp on Turkey Creek. There was plenty of game for the shooting, and in that vast emptiness of space he could nurse his wounded self-respect. But he had run out of flour and salt. Because Tascosa was farther from the A T O ranch than Clarendon he had chosen it as a point to buy supplies. The owner of the corral had offered him a job, and he had taken it. He had not supposed that Ramona was within a hundred miles of the spot. The last thing in the world he wanted was to meet her, but there was no help for it now.

  Her aunt carried to Ramona the word that a man was waiting outside with a message from her father. When she came down the porch steps, there were still traces of tear-stains on her cheeks. In the gathering dusk she did not at first recognize the man at the gate. She moved forward doubtfully, a slip of a slender-limbed girl, full of the unstudied charm and grace of youth.

  Halfway down the path she stopped, her heart beating a little faster. Could this wan and ragged man with the unkempt beard be Art Ridley, always so careful of his clothes and his personal appearance? She was a child of impulse. Her sympathy went out to him with a rush, and she streamed down the path to meet him. A strong, warm little hand pressed his. A flash of soft eyes irradiated him. On her lips was the tender smile that told him she was still his friend.

  "Where in the world have you been?" she cried. "And what have you been doing to yourself?"

  His blood glowed at the sweetness of her generosity.

  "I've been—camping."

  With the shyness and the boldness of a child she pushed home her friendliness. "Why don't you ever come to see a fellow any more?"

  He did not answer that, but plunged at his mission. "Miss Ramona, I've got bad news for you. Your father has been hurt—not very badly, I think. He told me to tell you that the wound was only a slight one."

  'Mona went white to the lips. "How?" she whispered.

  "The Dinsmores shot him. The men are bringing him here."

  He caught her in his arms as she reeled. For a moment her little head lay against his shoulder and her heart beat against his.

  "A trifling flesh-wound, your father called it," went on Ridley. "He said you were to get a bed ready for him, and fix bandages."

  She steadied herself and beat back the wave of weakness that had swept over her.

  "Yes," she said. "I'll tell Aunt. Have they sent for the doctor?"

  "Quint Sullivan went."

  A wagon creaked. 'Mona flew into the house to tell her aunt, and out again to meet her father. Her little ankles flashed down the road. Agile as a boy, she climbed into the back of the buckboard.

 
; "Oh, Dad!" she cried in a broken little voice, and her arms went round him in a passion of love.

  He was hurt worse than he was willing to admit to her.

  "It's all right, honeybug. Doc Bridgman will fix me up fine. Yore old dad is a mighty live sinner yet."

  Ridley helped Jumbo carry the cattleman into the house. As he came out, the doctor passed him going in.

  Ridley slipped away in the gathering darkness and disappeared.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVII

  OLD-TIMERS

  As soon as Captain Ellison heard of what had happened at Tascosa, he went over on the stage from Mobeetie to look at the situation himself. He dropped in at once to see his old friends the Wadleys. Ramona opened the door to him.

  "Uncle Jim!" she cried, and promptly disappeared in his arms for a hug and a kiss.

  The Ranger Captain held her off and examined the lovely flushed face.

  "Dog it, you get prettier every day you live. I wisht I was thirty years younger. I'd make some of these lads get a move on 'em."

  "I wish you were," she laughed. "They need some competition to make them look at me. None of them would have a chance then—even if they wanted it."

  "I believe that. I got to believe it to keep my self-respect. It's all the consolation we old-timers have got. How's Clint?"

  "Better. You should hear him swear under his breath because the doctor won't let him smoke more than two pipes a day, and because we won't let him eat whatever he wants to. He's worse than a sore bear," said Ramona proudly.

  "Lead me to him."

  A moment later the Ranger and the cattleman were shaking hands. They had been partners in their youth, had fought side by side in the Civil War, and had shot plains Indians together at Adobe Walls a few years since. They were so close to each other that they could quarrel whenever they chose, which they frequently did.

  "How, old-timer!" exclaimed the Ranger Captain.

  "Starved to death. They feed me nothin' but slops—soup an' gruel an' custard an' milk-toast. Fine for a full-grown man, ain't it? Jim, you go out an' get me a big steak an' cook it in boilin' grease on a camp-fire, an' I'll give you a deed to the A T O."

  "To-morrow, Clint. The Doc says—"

  "Mañana! That's what they all say. Is this Mexico or God's country? What I want, I want now."

  "You always did—an' you 'most always got it too," said Ellison, his eyes twinkling reminiscently.

  'Mona shook a warning finger at her father. "Well, he won't get it now. He'll behave, too, or he'll not get his pipe to-night."

  The sick man grinned. "See how she bullies a poor old man, Jim. I'm worse than that Lear fellow in the play—most henpecked father you ever did see."

  "Will she let you talk?"

  "He may talk to you, Uncle Jim."

  "What did I tell you?" demanded the big cattleman from the bed with the mock bitterness that was a part of the fun they both enjoyed. "You see, I got to get her permission. I'm a slave."

  "That's what a nurse is for, Clint. You want to be glad you got the sweetest one in Texas." The Captain patted Ramona affectionately on the shoulder before he passed to the business of the day. "I want to know about all these ructions in Tascosa. Tell me the whole story."

  They told him. He listened in silence till they had finished, asked a question or two, and made one comment.

  "That boy Roberts of mine is sure some go-getter."

  "He'll do," conceded the cattleman. "That lucky shot of his—the one that busted Dinsmore's arm—certainly saved my life later."

  "Lucky shot!" exploded Ellison. "And you just through tellin' me how he plugged the dollars in the air! Doggone it, I want you to know there was no darned luck about it! My boys are the best shots in Texas."

  "I'll take any one of 'em on soon as I'm out—any time, any place, any mark," retorted Wadley promptly.

  "I'll go you. Roberts is a new man an' hasn't had much experience. I'll match him with you."

  "New man! H'mp! He's the best you've got, an' you know it."

  "I don't know whether he is, but he's good enough to make any old-timer like you look like a plugged nickel."

  The cattleman snorted again, disdaining an answer.

  "Dad is the best shot in Texas," pronounced Ramona calmly, rallying to her father's support. For years she had been the umpire between the two.

  The Captain threw up his hands. "I give up."

  "And Mr. Roberts is just about as good."

  "That's settled, then," said Ellison. "But what I came to say is that I'm goin' to round up the Dinsmore bunch. We can't convict 'em of murder on the evidence we have, but I'll arrest 'em for shootin' you an' try to get a confession out of one of 'em. Does that look reasonable, Clint?"

  Wadley considered this.

  "It's worth a try-out. The Dinsmores are game. They won't squeal. But I've a sneakin' notion Gurley is yellow. He might come through—or that other fellow Overstreet might. I don't know him. You want to be careful how you try to take that outfit, though, Jim. They're dangerous as rattlesnakes."

  "That's the kind of outfit my boys eat up," answered the chipper little officer as he rose to leave. "Well, so long, Clint. Behave proper, an' mebbe this young tyrant will give you a nice stick o' candy for a good boy."

  He went out chuckling.

  The cattleman snorted. "Beats all how crazy Jim is about those Ranger boys of his. He thinks the sun rises an' sets by them. I want to tell you they've got to sleep on the trail a long time an' get up early in the mo'nin' to catch the Dinsmores in bed. That bird Pete always has one eye open. What's more, he an' his gang wear their guns low."

  "I don't think Uncle Jim ought to send boys like Jack Roberts out against such desperadoes. It's not fair," Ramona said decisively.

  "Oh, ain't it?" Her father promptly switched to the other side. "You give me a bunch of boys like young Roberts, an' I'd undertake to clean up this whole country, an' Lincoln County too. He's a dead shot. He's an A-1 trailer. He can whip his weight in wildcats. He's got savvy. He uses his brains. An' he's game from the toes up. What more does a man need?"

  "I didn't know you liked him," his daughter said innocently.

  "Like him? Jumpin' snakes, no! He's too darned fresh to suit me. What's likin' him got to do with it? I'm just tellin' you that no better officer ever stood in shoe-leather."

  "Oh, I see."

  Ramona said no more. She asked herself no questions as to the reason, but she knew that her father's words of praise were sweet to hear. They sent a warm glow of pride through her heart. She wanted to think well of this red-haired Ranger who trod the earth as though he were the heir of all the ages. In some strange way Fate had linked his life with hers from that moment when he had literally flung himself in her path to fight a mad bull for her life.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A SHOT OUT OF THE NIGHT

  Ramona sat on the porch in the gathering darkness. She had been reading aloud to her father, but he had fallen asleep beside her in his big armchair. During these convalescent days he usually took a nap after dinner and after supper. He called it forty winks, but to an unprejudiced listener the voice of his slumber sounded like a sawmill in action.

  The gate clicked, and a man walked up the path. He did not know that the soft eyes of the girl, sitting in the porch shadows, lit with pleasure at sight of him. Nothing in her voice or in her greeting told him so.

  He took off his hat and stood awkwardly with one booted foot on the lowest step.

  "I came to see Mr. Wadley," he presently explained, unaccountably short of small talk.

  She looked at her father and laughed. The saw was ripping through a series of knots in alternate crescendo and diminuendo. "Shall I wake him? He likes to sleep after eating. I think it does him good."

  "Don't you! I'll come some other time."

  "Couldn't you wait a little? He doesn't usually sleep long." The girl suggested it hospitably. His embarrassment relieved any she might otherwise ha
ve felt.

  "I reckon not."

  At the end of that simple sentence he stuck, and because of it Jack Roberts blushed. It was absurd. There was no sense in it, he told himself. It never troubled him to meet men. He hadn't felt any shyness when there had been a chance to function in action for her. But now he was all feet and hands before this slip of a girl. Was it because of that day when she had come flying between him and the guns of Dinsmore's lynching-party? He wanted to thank her, to tell her how deeply grateful he had been for the thought that had inspired her impulse. Instead of which he was, he did not forget to remind himself later, as expressive as a bump on a log.

  "Have you seen anything of Mr. Ridley?" she asked.

  "No, miss. He saved yore father's life from Pete Dinsmore. I reckon you know that."

  "Yes. I saw him for a moment. Poor boy! I think he is worrying himself sick. If you meet him will you tell him that everything's all right. Dad would like to see him."

  Their voices had dropped a note in order not to waken her father. For the same reason she had come down the steps and was moving with him toward the gate.

  If Jack had known how to say good-bye they would probably have parted at the fence, but he was not socially adequate for the business of turning his back gracefully on a young woman and walking away. As he backed from her he blurted out what was in his mind.

  "I gotta thank you for—for buttin' in the other day, Miss Ramona."

  She laughed, quite at her ease now. Why is it that the most tender-hearted young women like to see big two-fisted men afraid of them?

  "Oh, you thought I was buttin' in," she mocked, tilting a gay challenge of the eyes at him.